“I’ve been a woodcarver my whole life,” he said softly, his hands trembling slightly as he touched the smooth edge of the cradle.
Every curve, every detail was carved with love — not by machines, but by a grandfather’s hands, weathered by time and memory.
He had spent weeks shaping it —
sanding, polishing, pouring his heart into each inch of wood.
“This is for my great-grandson,” he whispered proudly.
But when the family gathered…
No one stopped.
No one noticed.
No one said a word.
The cradle sat in the corner like a forgotten relic,
while his heart quietly shattered inside.
A lifetime of love, unseen.
